


Recovery

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mary is a villain, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Scars, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the confrontation with Mary, and Sherlock's cardiac arrest, John stays at 221B to aid Sherlock's recovery, forcing them to confront wounds both old and new as they try to heal their damaged relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> This one actually /wasn't/ a nightmare to write, and I'm not sure if that's a good sign or not.

 

Gunshot wounds hurt. They hurt a _lot_. This is an undisputed fact of life.

 

Sherlock had long ago accepted that being shot was a distinct probability for him. He had stared down the barrel of a gun enough times in his life that it was only logical to assume that at some point, he would end up on the receiving end of a bullet.

 

Actually _taking_ the bullet had been a far less interesting experience than he would have imagined, indeed disappointingly so. In fact he barely remembers the actual incident itself, but what he _does_ register, all too acutely; is the deep, penetrating agony that throbs beneath his sternum.

 

The pain is expected, what he hadn’t anticipated however, was how hard the _recovery_ was going to be. It would take a considerable amount of time and physical therapy before he was fully able-bodied once more. This was something he had logically known to be true of all gunshot wounds, but in the wake of the chaos, he hadn’t really considered what would happen next.

 

He hadn’t thought about his trauma in regards to the long term, accepting that he had been shot, yes, but without thinking of the particulars to come. You don’t hear about these things, the whole laborious process of rehabilitation that comes in the wake of the bang. The excitement and drama of the actual shooting itself is over, and the threat of death has past, but it is with much trepidation, he acknowledges that his ordeal is still far from over.

 

No one can really know what being shot in the chest will feel like until it actually happens, he’d imagined it extensively, but theories and speculation had done little to prepare him for the moment when imagination was substituted for stark reality. The wound goes deep, the bullet searing a channel through the heart of him, he hurts in places he didn’t know it was possible to hurt.

 

He needs assistance with even the most basic of things, and fluidity of movement is what he misses the most. It is not in his nature to be tentative or patient, but he finds himself left with little choice but to stop and listen to what his body is telling to him. He detests having to be so careful, so meek and subdued. But his transport is failing him, forcing him to take notice and be mindful of his limits. The workings of everyday life have never posed to him such a challenge. He finds it difficult to so much as sit up.

 

He is utterly helpless, mostly incoherent, and out of his mind with fatigue.

 

Only once in his adult life has he been so dependent on others; that time had been painful in equal measure, but without the emotional strain of familiar connection. Mycroft’s staff had been professionally discreet, treating his wounds without comment, without sentiment.

 

That time, independent of one another, each wound had been relatively superficial, but together, the conjunction of so many injuries left him severely debilitated. The worst he had suffered was a punctured lung, which while serious, was altogether manageable. And though Serbia had hardly left him on the brink of death, it had been the most painful experience he had ever endured.

 

The recovery from that, while not to be sneered at, was short in comparison to what he would now be faced with. He supposes death tends to have that effect, the process of flat-lining causing his transport to dissolve into unrivalled hysterics. Though perhaps a less painful experience as a whole, he finds the task ahead to be far more daunting.

 

The thing about pain; is that it is inherently irrational. Sherlock is a veteran of this establishment, well decorated in the field of physical suffering. But in spite of this, pain is still pain; it does not acknowledge rationalisations concerning previous precedence; it doesn’t hurt him any less for it. He cannot will it away, or develop a higher threshold, his body doesn’t care if this pain is less in comparison, because that doesn’t diminish what it is in the present; he is granted no such concession for all his years of service.

 

Sherlock has been home for almost two days, and John remains stubbornly at his side. Sherlock had not anticipated this, although in retrospect he was foolish not to; John is a doctor, his best friend is gravely injured, where else would he go?

 

Guilt acts as a partial motivator, but it is not why he stays. John Watson wears his heart on his sleeve, and Sherlock’s death has set it bleeding, not for the first time. He cares for Sherlock with a passion that is as incomprehensible as it is blinding.

 

It also safe to assume that with the rift that has formed between he and his wife, it is unlikely that he will be content to stay within the walls of his marital home. The thought elicits a small stab of dark satisfaction; because John has chosen him over her.

 

No. He quashes the feeling. The situation is more complicated than that, because Mary is not just his would-be murderer; she is John’s _wife_ , and Sherlock knows that he loves her. John hasn’t really chosen him, and it would be foolish to presume otherwise, he is here solely by circumstance, and Sherlock would do well not forget that.

 

However…John assuming the role of primary care giver is problematic in itself, for it passes the burden unto him. Unlike any of Mycroft’s dispassionate minions; it hurts John to see Sherlock wounded, and in turn it hurts Sherlock to be at the root of John’s pain. It is a vicious cycle.

 

John can barely stand to look at him, and with every glance, their hearts break just a little more. The arrangement is not good, for either of them, but to ask John to leave would be an insult, and as much as Sherlock wishes John not to be here; he couldn’t bear for it to be anyone else.

 

John is the only one Sherlock trusts will be there for him, the only one to whom he could submit control. Or at least he _was_ ; now his watchful gaze feels dangerously exposing. Because Sherlock has a secret, one that John can never know.

 

He has done well to keep it from him this far, but he’d had no contingency plan for this, and he is left scrambling for his defences, desperate for a way to contain the repercussions. But he is in no position of leverage from which to strategize; there is no way that he can hide it from John now. There are no moves left for him to play, and it is only a matter of time before the truth comes out.

 

His time in Serbia had not come without cost. He had hoped that John would remain ignorant to this little fact, but it is with resignation that he acknowledges the inevitability of the confrontation. From the very moment he set foot back in London, a countdown had been set in motion, a clock ticking ominously down to the moment of truth.

 

His physical state can only be described as weak, in every respect; there is very little he can do independently of John. He will rely on John for everything; to feed him, bathe him and clothe him. The bandages will need to be changed regularly, and John will surely want to monitor the healing process closely. This necessitates a great deal of physical contact, prolonged periods in which John will have unlimited access to every inch of Sherlock’s bare skin.

 

There will be no way to shield his back from John’s careful attentions, and he realises with a sinking feeling that it will not only be the existence of his physical scars that hurt John, but of Sherlock’s silence also. He has, quite literally, added insult to injury.

 

He hadn’t the heart to tell him.

 

Serbia had taken something vital from him, something he didn’t know how to get back. His experiences had softened him, leaving him more vulnerable to the sweep of his emotions. His own mind was a mystery to him, he was never certain now as to how _he_ would react, and compounding that with the emotions of others was deemed to be too overwhelming

 

At first John had been angry, and the memory too fresh, too raw and unpleasant to recount. Then John had been distant, their relationship too tentative and strained to disrupt the balance, and in truth? John’s apathy was disconcerting, making him disinclined to expose himself in sharing something so deeply personal. And so the act of concealing his scars had become deeply ingrained. After that, it just never seemed to be the right time; John hadn’t _asked_ so the subject never came up, and with the wedding providing a (somewhat) welcome a distraction, it was all too easy to push it to the back of his mind.

 

But in all honesty? It was much simpler than that; Sherlock just hadn’t wanted him to know.

 

John has been predictably fastidious in regards to Sherlock’s medication schedule, which is an incredible inconvenience. He had been firm in his insistence that Sherlock take exactly the prescribed amount of his oxycodone, watching him hawkishly as he swallows them.

 

John is observant, indeed more so that most being under his tutelage, but Sherlock is a master of misdirection. He’ll almost certainly be furious when he finds out that Sherlock has been tonguing his meds from the start, but the medication makes him sluggish, and he simply cannot afford to remain idle, not when so much hangs in the balance.

 

He needs time to think, to plan out their next move, and he certainly cannot do that with his mind clouded by opiates. Mary has turned out to be a far more important player than he’d anticipated, and he is still unclear as to her motives. Mary genuinely does love John, of that he is convinced, but there are so many other questions left unanswered, and Sherlock _hates_ not knowing.

 

The most important question of course is whether or not John is in danger. She loves him, yes, but how far will she go to keep him? And what would she do if it became apparent that she could not? She clearly has no problem with killing Sherlock (despite what he might have said to the contrary), even going so far as to threaten him on several occasions after the fact.

 

No, Mary had intended for him to die, there was no doubt about that. He’d taken the liberty of researching ‘A.G.R.A.’ himself in the hospital after his cardiac arrest, using Mycroft’s credentials to scan databases that did not officially exist. She had several aliases, but from what little he could gather; it was a signature hit. Her bullet travelled through his liver, obliterating his interior vena cava; her modus operandi.

 

She called the ambulance purely as window dressing, as insurance against his known tendency to miraculously cheat death. But would she have any reservations about doing the same to John Watson? Sherlock will destroy her, he will tear her lungs from her chest with his bare hands, child or not, before he allows that to happen.

 

Then there is the question of said unborn child. John as a doctor was always scrupulous about contraception before, but Sherlock has little data as to how marital relations might alter his stance.

 

Sherlock had deduced her pregnancy himself, thus convincing John beyond a shadow of a doubt; but Mary is clever, and it was entirely possible for a woman of her intellect to fabricate the evidence, knowing full well that he would notice the signs. He was certainly no expert; after all, women were really _not_ his area. It was highly improbable that she could fake a pregnancy for any length of time, especially living with a doctor, but she was not yet far enough along for it to be impossible, so he could not rule it out.

 

Was it a ploy to further stake her claim on John? Probably. Perhaps she had been planning a tearful miscarriage, or was simply stalling until she could become pregnant via other means; after all, there was no way for her to stage a birth. Had John been present for an ultrasound? Was there a sonogram? Was there yet any physical proof to support her claims? Could these things be falsified?

 

If the child was real, and was indeed John’s, then that made everything more complicated. John might choose to stay with her for the sake of the child, and even if he didn’t, he would insist on being a part of the child’s life, thus ruling out the possibility of a clean break. He might find himself a single father; cuckholded and left holding the child.

 

Sherlock shuddered at the thought, though he wasn’t adverse to children as a general rule (indeed they were naturally perceptive), the idea of John with a baby did not sit well with him. Nappies, late nights babysitting, and prams had no place in Sherlock’s world. John would have a responsibility to this child, one he would hold above all else, and thus his time would be divided with his changing priorities, leaving less time for cases, and even less for Sherlock.

 

It was selfish and cruel of him, but he found himself fervently wishing with everything he had that this child would not come to be.

 

Pain.

 

It pulls him from his thoughts with its intensity. Even taking the full dosage he would still be experiencing significant discomfort, and the consequences of taking less than half were becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore. Apparently, the presence of pain was equally as detrimental to the process of coherent thought as its absence; his impediment leaving him thwarted and inert, drugs or no drugs.

 

He tries to roll onto his side in miserable frustration, but the twist to his torso only results in searing a blinding pang of agony right to his core. He is a slave to the whims of his transport, forcing him to surrender gingerly back into the mattress, conquered; humiliated. He feels his face flush from the shame of it, gripped by the desire rail and sob with the force of his resentment, seething at how broken and damaged he has become. He knows that he is allowing himself to stew somewhat overly morbidly in the self-pity of his malaise, but he can't quite bring himself to care _,_ and damnit, doesn't he have that right?

 

Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his head firmly back against the mattress in an attempt to ward off the bottomless pit of torment that has become his mind; he hears John’s footsteps approaching down the hall. He checks the clock; _damn_ , right on schedule. There is little time in which to school his emotions, and even less chance that John will fail to notice that something is amiss.

 

The first thing John says when he enters the room is, perplexingly;

 

“What happened to the pillows?”

 

The offending articles lie in a dejected heap somewhere on the far side of the room, where they had been unceremoniously flung from the bed the moment he laid eyes on them; hateful things, too soft, too suffocating.

 

“I don’t use _pillows_ ,” he grumbles, injecting acid into his voice in an effort to mask the strain.

 

John looks amused at this, fond almost to the point of cheeriness.

 

“Since when?”

 

_Since I left London. The absence of luxury was everywhere, and now I can’t stomach the things._

 

Sherlock offers him no reply. Unable to turn his back in a demonstration of his bad temper, he is forced to resort to a sullen, completely unintimidating silence.

 

But by now John is almost entirely immune to the spectrum of his moods, rendering the process draining and ineffectual. He drops the pretence in exhaustion, allowing the demands of his body’s aches to drag him down with their eclipsing ennui.

 

“Time for your meds,” John’s voice is more serious now, Sherlock’s compounding lack of engagement crushing the tentative stab of budding optimism, “Do you need a hand sitting up?”

 

Sherlock at least has the cool head and the presence of mind to decline, keeping his back to the headboard as he wrestles his uncooperative body upright. But as the mattress shifts, it unearths the unmistakable pattering noise of capsules meeting wooden floorboards.

 

He’s caught.

 

 _Damn._ He knew he should have just flushed the fucking things.

 

John stares at the pills, eyes momentarily flicking to Sherlock, then back to the pills. Of course John hasn’t the decency to just let it go; like a dog with a bone he marches straight over and scoops them up.

 

Taking a deep fuming breath, John examines Sherlock closely. Whatever conclusion he comes to; it appears to make him very angry. He thrusts out his open palm; presenting Sherlock with the verdict of his crime; guilty as charged.

 

“Sherlock; _what the fuck is this_?”

 

“Oxycodone,” he mutters defiantly, glaring into the traitorous mattress.

 

“I know what they _are_ , you git, but perhaps you could explain to me,” he snarls, “What they were doing _stashed under your mattress_?” His teeth are gritted, words grinding out as they always tend to do when he is on a short fuse.

 

Briefly Sherlock wonders which way he’s going to go; does he think Sherlock has been overmedicating himself like an addict, or torturing himself like an idiot? But John is not a stupid man, so of course he gets it right; good, he’s improving.

 

“You’ve been palming your meds,” He observes with a hollow voice.

 

John doesn’t shout, instead he droops like a wilted flower, head down, shoulders sagging, renouncing his anger as futile. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, more so than if he were under scrutiny, he hates it when John does this, it never fails to instill in him a horrendous sense of guilt.

 

“ _Why_ Sherlock? You’re on this dose for a reason, look at you; you’re in pain.” He looks sad; he’s not supposed to look sad. The anger was by far preferable to defeat.

 

Sherlock shrugs, grimacing as the movement jostles his chest.

 

“Helps me think.” He mutters, and even to his own ears it’s a weak excuse. He too, is starting doubt the wisdom of his actions; afterall he’s no better off for it, he has accomplished _nothing_. And god, it _hurts_.

 

“Damn it Sherlock!” The anger makes a spontaneous, if predictable, comeback, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you need to give your body time to heal or…”

 

 _Or _what?__ There are so many terrible ways John could find to complete that sentence. Sherlock looks up abruptly when he stops speaking, anxious to hear its end; and is alarmed to see that John is in distress, his body turned to the wall, breathing heavily, with one hand shielding his eyes from view.

 

“...John?”

 

He hates how hesitant he sounds, how afraid, but the pain is dulling his senses, leaving him exhausted and vulnerable; this was a bad idea. The effect of the one pitiful tablet he’d taken two hours ago had almost certainly worn off, and the pain was making itself known, this time with a vengeance. 

 

He tries to force it down, to focus on John, John is here, John is upset; he can fix this, he can, he just needs to _concentrate_.

 

“I can’t…” John inhales sharply, “I can’t do this again, Sherlock.”

 

_No._

 

His throat tightens in fear; is John saying that he will leave him? Would he do that? Would he do that _now_ , when Sherlock is unable to stop him? He can’t help the rising panic; John is finally home, where he belongs, John can’t _leave_ , he can’t! Sherlock only just got him _back_. He must say something, do something, _anything_ to make him stay.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, voice cracking in his desperation, “Please don’t leave me.”

 

His eyes are stinging harshly with the onslaught, emotions getting the better of him; he will not cry. He will _not_.

 

That brings John’s head back up sharply, and his face is wounded. He moves forward to perch on the bed next to him, his body radiating heat, just inches from Sherlock’s bare chest. Sherlock’s breath stutters.

 

“No. No you idiot, that’s _my_ line. I didn't mean...I’m not _going_ anywhere, I just… _you’ve_ got to stop leaving _me._ Sherlock, you keep _dying_ , and I can’t go through that again. So please, just; don’t.”

 

Oh god, John’s voice wavers threateningly in his reply, and Sherlock’s lip trembles in sympathy. He can’t do this, if John were to cry now, it would be his undoing, the fragile hold he has on his emotions would break and bleed him dry.

 

_I love you. I’m sorry. iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou_

 

John’s face is so close to his that it makes it harder to see him properly, with features so open, so brutally honest in the mortal fear he holds for Sherlock’s life. It’s not unwarranted, which makes it even worse; Sherlock has died three times already in the space that John has known him, he can’t promise that he won’t die tomorrow. He might die right now _this second_ from the strain to his heart.

 

Having him right here is dangerously close to intoxicating. He could lean up right now; close the few inches that separate them and…

 

“Shit. _Shit._ Shit shit shit.”

 

He doubles over in pain, gasping in surprise, god; it runs so deep, seemingly impossibly so. It’s too much; he can’t ignore it any longer, his body screaming that it will be heard. He feels an enormous swell of respect for anyone who has survived being shot in the chest. He’s practically sobbing, how in god’s name can it hurt this much?

 

_'Without the shock, you're going to feel the pain, there's a hole ripped through you, massive internal bleeding. You have to control the pain.'_

 

_'There must be something in this ridiculous memory palace that can calm you down.'_

 

He'd gone looking for John first, made a bee-line for the East Wing, John's wing, but Mary headed him off, killing him before he got a chance... _Irrelevant;_ that was then and this is now, the memory serves him no purpose, but his mind is all over the place, ravaged and confused.

 

“Shh, it’s alright, here, take these, you’re not going to be sick are you?”

 

He shakes his head no.

 

John is supporting him, one hand on his abdominals and the other around his shoulders, face pinched tight in concern. He pulls away, and gently pushes Sherlock’s head up, offering in his palm, three little pills. The prescribed dosage is two, but he supposes this is only fair.

 

This time he takes them without protest; all of them.

 

“m’sorry,” he offers weakly.

 

He _is_ sorry; for everything. It was Sherlock who brought them here, every move he’s made since he got back had been detrimental to John, his clumsy attempts to fix what was broken only digging them deeper, exacerbating the rift.

 

Banished from Sherlock’s world, John, limping and broken, fell into Mary’s open, comforting arms, helpless prey to a boa constrictor. She dug her claws into him like knives, razor wire encircling him. And in his desperation for forgiveness, Sherlock failed to look deeper, neglecting all his duties as protector, he’d watched passively as she ate him whole.

 

But John would have been fine had he stayed away, a clean break allowing him to slowly rebuild his life. Mary, he thinks, would have embraced the opportunity for a fresh start, to give up the life she’d spent years running from; content to settle down, to be domesticated. John would have been safe with her; protected, cherished.

 

Mary was so close to having the life she’d always wanted, her chance for redemption; the happy ending she felt she had earned. Sherlock’s unexpected return was an unwelcome upset to her plans for a peaceful retirement, he had woken the beast that lay dormant, and unleashed it upon them all. He knew she loathed him as the thief he was, and as usual, John was left a victim in the cross hairs of Sherlock’s foolish ignorance.

 

Sherlock crippled John’s life, he gambled his heart, and stole all chance he might have had for happiness. John’s world had fallen apart in the wake of his return, and all of it, every act, every tragedy, every moment of _pointless suffering_ , was entirely and irrefutably .his.fault.

 

“I’m so sorry John.”

 

“Don’t apologise,” John murmurs gently into his ear, hand stroking down his arm, “It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is your fault.”

 

The weight of John’s suffocating forgiveness makes him want to scream himself hoarse; good, loyal incorruptible John, allowing injury to masquerade as innocence. In truth though, getting shot _was_ Sherlock’s fault, so many incalculable mistakes accumulating to his damnnation, everything he’d ever done leading up to the shot. You could argue perhaps that he’d even deserved it; but John believes his words, however misguided, and the guilt in his voice stills Sherlock’s tongue.

 

“Let’s get you down okay? More comfortable. Pillows?” He sounds strangely hopeful, as if a proclivity for pillows would do anything to ease his suffering. Why did Sherlock’s rejection of them unnerve him so, why did he care? He hasn’t the energy to even hazard a guess.

 

“No. No pillows.”

 

“Alright, okay, no pillows. There you go, better?”

 

“Mmm,” then after a beat; “Cold.”

 

He’d kicked the duvet off hours ago; it was a light one, but still uncomfortably heavy somehow, restricting him, pressing down on his wound. Besides, the sharpness of cold had helped him to focus, much as it had in Serbia, but now he just wants to be warm, to sleep, to put everything behind him.

 

John walks around the foot of the bed, and the sound of his bare feet padding against wood surprisingly soothing as he climbs in the other side, pulling the blankets over the both of them.

 

“I’m gonna stay here the night, alright?”

 

“Alright,” he agrees breathily, too tired to protest, too numb to read deeper.

 

The pills have yet to kick in, and it’s an agonising wait. They lie in the darkness, Sherlock’s breathing all too heavy, strained with the stress; inhale, cough, exhale, shudder. He squirms, pressing his right palm over the scar as if to guard it, but it only to throbs harder in protest.

 

“John. It hurts.”

 

He’s stuck in the limbo of recovery, reduced to stating meaningless obvious facts in a voice that makes it sound like he is begging. In a way he is; begging John to make it stop, even when he knows it is not in his power to do so. It doesn’t _feel_ like a recovery, it feels like he’ll never get up, like he’s going to die right here, tethered to the bed. _Oh God_ , _it’s never going to end._

 

“I know; I know it does, it’s alright, just a little while longer. Let the pain killers do their job.”

 

John carefully pries away his hand, squeezing it tightly. Sherlock practically crushes John’s hand in return, trying to keep still and wait it out, but it’s difficult, so very difficult. He moans.

 

John’s body is pressed along his left side from thigh to shoulder, and he tries to centre his mind on that, to block out the pain with the press of John’s thigh against his, as John surreptitiously checks his watch. Sherlock can’t see his face, but from the tension in his forearm, it’s clear that they still have a way to go.

 

John’s cheek rests against his shoulder, his chest flush with Sherlock’s arm. He’s warm and he’s heavy, the plains of his body aligning so naturally with his own. They fit together so perfectly that it makes him never want to forget, he wishes for focus, that he be allowed to enjoy it, to just lose himself in the feeling. But the pain is a hindrance, dragging him away.

 

In an attempt to distract himself from the pain in his liver, he deduces something he’d rather not have; _John knows_. Well, seeing as he’s already in agony, a little more is not undue;

 

“Go on, ask me.” He’s tired, but if he’s talking he’s not screaming, and John’s repressed curiosity is weighing heavily on both their minds.

 

“Ask you what?” John’s voice is more guarded, but he doesn’t withdraw. A few years ago he might be amused by the challenge, wondering about what extraordinary deduction Sherlock might have made.

 

But in the wake of all that has happened, the prospect of Sherlock’s deductions no longer holds the same appeal. Of late, the consequences of Sherlock’s words have been infinitely more devastating and lamentable than before, thus John has grown not to relish the anticipation of the reveal, but to bear witness with a reluctant ear, mindful and braced for impact.

 

Sherlock misses the days when John listened eagerly with eyes bright, when Sherlock’s cleverness gave him cause to smile and laugh; captivated with baited breath, hanging on his every word. Now Sherlock’s observations turn his face stony, weathered against unwelcome home truths. These days, it feels like every time Sherlock opens his mouth a new monster rears its ugly head, a new obstacle bars their way, another harrowing trial that threatens to swallow them whole.

 

A few years ago they might have been happy had they made it here, to the comfort of one another’s arms. But like a bird with clipped wings, they were never meant to fly. Recent events gape between them like a yawning chasm, leaving the possibilities that were once so plentiful nothing but a distant fantasy.

 

Yes, they could have been happy once, before the flames licked the walls and it all came tumbling down. He’d seen a ray of something beautiful, just the barest sliver of opportunity so tantalising, so full of light, but what the window gave was but a fleeting glimpse, a promise the universe never intended to fulfil. Now the chance has passed them by, if it were ever there at all, and Sherlock would not wish himself upon anyone, least of all John, not after what he has done.

 

“You _know_ what; when you helped me lie down, I know you felt them. It’s alright, you can ask.”

 

The air evacuates John’s lungs in an audible rush, he doesn’t deny it; relieved at being found out. He had been very professional in not mentioning them, his reaction subdued enough that in his current state, Sherlock had almost missed it. He hadn’t caught the expression on John’s face upon recognition, a fact for which he is enormously grateful.

 

John is propped up on one arm, looking down at him now with such unrivalled concern that he feels the inexplicable urge to cry. Sherlock wants to smooth away the lines on his face, banish the fear from his eyes, but what he has to say won’t comfort anyone.

 

“Who did this to you?” There’s outrage in his whisper, but it hasn’t the edge of anger, only the bottomless well of his sorrow.

 

“A sect of Moriarty’s agents in Serbia. It was luck really, they didn’t even know what they had, thought I was a Croatian spy.” He smiles wryly at the memory; idiots.

 

“How long Sherlock,” John’s voice endlessly gentle, but insistent and grave, “How long did they have you?”

 

He tries to recall, but the memories are both vivid and oddly muddied at the same time. That, added to the drugs they’d pumped him full of in the safe house in Germany, made it quite hard to determine a concrete timeline.

 

“Five weeks, possibly longer, I lost track.”

 

“Possibly longer. _Jesus_.”

 

“I’m alright, no permanent damage.”

 

He can feel John shaking his head repeatedly without sound, struggling to get the words out. The lines of his body are tightly strung, muscles contracting with nervous distress.

 

_I’m sorry John._

 

“Sherlock,” it sounds as though he is barely repressing a sob, “Sherlock but _your back_.”

 

His back is mangled and scarred, forever marked by the abuse of his torturers. And perhaps to others that constitutes as permanent damage, but it doesn’t matter to him, and in time, he hopes that it won’t to John either; because his _mind_ is whole.

 

“I know.” He says soberly, “I know. But it’s okay John. Really, I mean it.”

 

He feels calmer, heavier; the medication finally starting to dull the edge, lulling him into a sad sort of serenity, John's warmth at his side making him bold.

 

John cups his jaw, turning his face up, and they are caught; lost as the world narrows down to the two of them. He sees John more than ever before, can see _into_ him; his heart, his depth, his perplexing mind, everything that he is conveyed openly for Sherlock’s eyes only.

 

It’s breathtaking, he simply cannot look away, with every passing second he sees more, knows more, he looks right to the core of him. John is glorious, a walking enigma, a fascinating man of opposites, strong, brave, compassionate; his love of danger, chaos and darkness a sharp contradiction to the soft unassuming doctor facade he presents to the world.

 

Oh, if only the world were to see him as Sherlock does, because John is not ordinary, John is not boring; he is the most interesting human being that he has ever had the good fortune of knowing. Sherlock could spend years studying him, and still never scratch the surface of what makes this man tick. He wants to know everything, to dedicate himself to the task; he wants to spend the rest of his life with this man.

 

Impossibly, John must glimpse something similar in his unguarded face, because he looks to Sherlock as if he would give him the stars.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock, for everything you’ve done for me.” The words ghost against his lips, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

 

Sherlock has suffered much in John’s name, but for that he needs no thanks. He would never have presumed to ask him his gratitude, nor dreamt to hear it falling from those lips. He would have traded anything for John’s approval, a token of his appreciation for Sherlock sacrifice. He wanted it, but would never have asked.

 

Dying for John Watson had been his privilege.

 

John leans down, fractionally slowly, allowing him time to reconsider, as if Sherlock would ever pull away. Sherlock’s heart is leaping in his chest, so full and bursting that he thinks again that he might die. When their lips meet, it’s soft and wet, and gentle; so overwhelmingly sincere, that his mind is rendered earth-shatteringly quiet.

 

It’s the briefest of kisses, innocent, but with promise. There’s no heat in the exchange, but if there is one thing that it is _not_ ; it is a chaste gesture between friends. It’s so much more than that; Sherlock’s blood _sings_. John looks worried as he searches Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock himself has never felt more assured.

 

He can’t help it, Sherlock smiles, he smiles because it really is okay, he smiles despite himself because the truth is; he’s the one who is alive, and they are dead.

 

If he could survive that, then he could certainly pull through this, and this time; he doesn’t have to be alone, because this time he has John. They’ll deal with the fallout together, and they’ll come out on top, because united they are invincible; just the two of them against the rest of the world.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Recovery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678071) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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